


Armistice

by viceroy



Series: War Crimes [1]
Category: Daredevil (Comics), Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Punisher (Comics)
Genre: M/M, Mutual Masturbation, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-21 09:21:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6046336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viceroy/pseuds/viceroy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a night with minimal casualties, Frank Castle spends an unexpectedly peaceful night with one Matt Murdock.</p><p>Originally meant to be a whole lot of smut but things change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Armistice

The night is hot, a stifling atmosphere in a world that continues to spiral into a horrible beast of a thing. The monster that lurks within this jungle of iron and steel has been wounded, its cries the police sirens as they close in on the source of its anger, its eyes flashing red and blue as you hide within one of its myriad buildings. Usually you would be making your way to better ground, but tonight you already can tell this is an incident that they just want wrapped up though the end result has your style written all over it. Menace, they’ve called you. Insane, so many others have shouted. The ones who are most like you have been the most vocal. Even with the beast wounded, the creatures that are supposed to guard it have never warmed to your style of defense. Not like they have the spider. Not like they have the devil that lurks in its kitchen.

You have no problem with that. You aren’t the hero of this story. You’re the force of nature these stories warn about, the god in the machine that swoops in to correct the problem when all other options have dried up. You’re the specter of Death, come to punish the wicked. Sometimes the others can tolerate you but most of the time? They consider you part of the problem that plagues this city, a cancer that’s rarely benign but sometimes necessary.

You’re Frank Castle, and tonight you’ve once again destroyed the notion of your ability to be a force that can work with others.

It was a harrowing night, something that would be exceptional even for you. A trail of agony and human slavers has led you all the way across Manhattan tonight, from Harlem all the way down to the Kitchen, only to discover this path has many routes, and Murdock and Spider-Man both ended up right at the fork that led to the same men.

They were prepared for you. The three of you thought after you’d gotten the usual threats of jail time that you were prepared for them. You were wrong.

It seems one of you- or maybe all of you- had gotten careless. The man at the top had gotten wind of your coming with the force that only the three of you could bring. He’d brought in what may as well have been a small army. Superweapons, super _villains_ , trained killers. The whole works. You’re impressed. It’s nothing you haven’t seen before, of course, but the speed in which he supposedly amassed the opposition is something that could make your head spin.

You brought hell down on all of their heads, the three of you, and not for the first time you wish that the two that have joined you for this little excursion would take that step. So much evil could be stamped out if they’d let go. You’d be nothing compared to them. But you’ve had that conversation, more times than you can count. It’s been a good night so far, so you take shots that would be less than lethal to appease the other two. If someone died, it was from their stupidity and not from anything you’re actively trying to do. It tears at you that these men and women, killers with no cause other than money, are left alive, but you’ll see them again, on ground where there won’t be someone to stop you from taking them out. It always happens.

But of course the big fish decides to slip away when everyone else is occupied. You manage to get away from the watchful gaze of the other two and give chase. They’re too busy to say anything or notice, and by the time they could have a handle on anything the both of you are long gone from the factory you’d been lured to.

From there it’s a pitched battle across the road that leads along the Hudson, a dragged out battle that takes you back up the same damn route you took to get there. You aren’t quiet but neither is he, and by the time you’ve made it halfway up the city the news choppers are circling like vultures as you trade words in a language of cordite, lead, and high explosive. 

Things become hazy from there. Your battle van takes a direct hit and you go reeling over guard rails, nearly into the polluted expanse of the Hudson. Your head’s a mess of blood but self-assessment tells you it’s nothing to be worried about. There are tons of capillaries in the cranium and the love to make things look worse than they actually are. Your head spins. A concussion? Maybe, but you have work to do still. You can worry about it later.

Only by the time you’re able to make it back over the guardrail and onto the streets proper Spider-Man is already there, cleaning up. You try and take a shot for the big fish. Genovese. His name is Genovese and he’s new in town but that doesn’t _not_ make him a force to be reckoned with. You can’t get a good shot. Spider-Man isn’t interfering, but you think that has more to do with his not knowing you’re there more than some newfound respect for the things you do. No, you can’t get a good shot because your vision is blurring, your head is pounding. As much as you’d like to just create a death blossom this is still New York City. Who knows who would get tagged wherever you’re aiming? Despite what the papers say and the things you’ve done in the past, you _aren’t_ that kind of guy.

Spider-Man takes down Genovese and despite the damage you and he have caused; you can feel the cutting of tension in police as they crowd the area. You let the guy go for now. Maybe the justice system will actually work. Or it won’t and you’ll be here again. You don’t care because you’ll always be here, on nights like this, waiting to bring the war that much closer to ending. You slip away from the crowd and you think you here a pointed “Get back here!” that you don’t listen to. No one follows, at any rate.

You find yourself in some old tenement building. It looks like they’re going through some sort of remodeling so you suppose the tenants might still be around somewhere. You haven’t seen them and you can’t really find a good reason to care. You only really care that the apartment you break into has a bed and running water. You drink like a fish and clean up the gash that’s only just now starting to scab and you see you’re right. Nothing to worry about. What does have you concerned is the bump the size of a fucking _egg_ next to it. The symptoms you’ve been feeling are a definite concussion and you sigh roughly. You wanted to sleep but now you’ve gotta monitor yourself for the next few hours.

You curl up on the shitty bed in the next room and try not to bleed too much on the linens. Outside you can hear a fleet of police cars converging nearby but you already can tell by the way they pass up this neighborhood that they aren’t looking for you. Minimal deaths, maybe the other two are letting you off easy tonight. You try to relax but even in the oppressive humidity of middle Manhattan your hands and feet feel cold. You shuck your clothes off and weakly push them off of the bed with screaming muscles and bundle up more into the blankets. You feel sick but it passes if you lie still. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to block it all out. Trying not to think at all.

You almost miss the faint thump that tells you that you aren’t alone.

Your hand immediately goes for the handgun you stashed under the pillow but you’re intercepted with an explosion of pain across the hand that reaches for it. Before you know it you’re being pinned on the bed with someone’s knees shoved into your armpits while you hear the clicks and scrapes of your weapon being disassembled and thrown across the confines of the room. You try to throw your intruder off but all you get is a spinning room and a mild slap across your face for your troubles.

“Quit struggling.” You recognize the voice, the deadpan order. It’s Murdock. You don’t relax but you comply.

“Doesn’t this usually come after the third date, Devil?” You ask with an amused sneer. “I’m sorry, but I’m not that kind of girl.”

“I think we’re past the third one at this point,” he shoots back and you think you even detect a hint of amusement. But then again you aren’t exactly in the best state of mind for sound judgment at the moment. “Where did you go?” he asks.

“Here,” you state simply. Isn’t it obvious?

“No. Earlier. One minute you were there and the next you were out of the building.”

“Someone had to go after Genovese,” you respond. “You and the other guy were busy if I remember right. He would have gotten away if it weren’t for me.”

“And the riverfront would still be intact,” he states, but there’s none of the usual heat behind it. None of the disappointment he usually carries is there, which tells you that whatever happened, there weren’t unnecessary deaths. He may not approve of your methods but he isn’t Spider-Man. He won’t martyr himself if some of the people you ran across were taken out. Small miracles, right? You point out that he doesn’t seem too torn up about it and he laughs a breathless thing that doesn’t carry any humor. “We just busted a small army and one of the new bosses in town. I don’t really feel like the usual song and dance tonight.”

“Then why are you here?” you ask. He never really cares where you are unless you’ve screwed up in your eyes. He’s never really there unless he needs to hunt you down for your own predatory habits.

“Making sure you aren’t dead in a ditch,” he tells you. “Or maybe making sure you are if any rumors started popping up. I could smell you bleeding when I got to where things ended. Followed you here. You should be glad the cops are tied up with Genovese’s operations. The dogs would have found you in a heartbeat.”

“And the guys who live here?” you ask.

“Renovations,” he tells you. “This entire floor’s empty. If anything, I guess you should be glad for that one.” There’s a heavy pause between you. Neither of you are sure what to say, now that he’s here. Now that he knows you’re relatively fine. You aren’t friends. You’re enemies just as often as not. He sighs and slides off of you, slumping onto the bed. You can feel the excess adrenaline bleeding off of him. He shivers as well.

“This is going to be a nightmare in the courts,” he confesses to you. You aren’t exactly sure he meant to say that aloud.

“Isn’t every case?” you ask noncommittally. Just to keep him talking. You need to stay up, you remind yourself. Maybe this is the distraction you need. “This isn’t exactly your ring anyway, not unless he tries to hire you.”

“I’m a prosecutor now,” he confesses, and your eyes open blearily at the information.

“When did that happen?” you ask.

“When I got back to New York,” he states simply. “Defense is well and good. I made a lot of difference there, but.” He lets out a small groan as he shifts and you can hear his joints pop. “There’s so much corruption on the other side, too. Too many people letting the wrong people walk for the wrong reasons.”

“So is that our new thing, then?” you ask. “The other guy sets them up, you knock them down, and I take them out when they get back up.” He stiffens next to you. You don’t care. He knows who you are. What you’ve done. A conversation hasn’t changed anything.

“It shouldn’t have to be. I won’t let it.” The response comes after a long silence, and he slowly starts to relax again. “I should probably call my partner,” he says and if that isn’t a subject change you don’t know what is. “I was supposed to meet up with him once this was done. He gets…excitable if I’m not around.”

You snort. “You have a _sidekick_ now?” Murdock grimaces and shakes his head vehemently.

“It’s not like that. He’s…got a lot of issues. I thought I could help turn them into something more constructive. Or at least make sure he doesn’t get himself killed,” he confesses.

“So a sidekick,” you say despite his protest. “What does he call himself?”

“Blindspot,” he tells you easily and you can’t help it. That actually gets a hearty laugh out of you. “ _What_?” He demands and you throw your hands up, placating.

“Nothing, Murdock. It’s just a bit ironic considering who he’s interning for,” you say. He freezes in his spot before a small snort tears through him as well. Silence descends again once the two of you have yourselves together again. It’s nice in a strange way, that the two of you aren’t tearing one another apart. But you can only let it slide for so long. “Why are you here?” you ask again.

“I already told you,” he says easily, and you shake your head, slow enough that it doesn’t agitate you.

“That was a bullshit answer and you know it,” you respond simply. “I’ve had worse. _You’ve_ had worse. We’ve done worse to each other. I’ll be fine. Why are you here?”

He freezes again, the tension from earlier coming back, and you turn your head to look at him. He’s pulled his cowl off of his face and is simply staring blankly up to the ceiling, eyes clouded over for years now. Finally he releases a breath and turns his head to the wall. “I didn’t want to be alone tonight.”

You swallow uncomfortably. It’s been months since you’ve seen Murdock, even longer since you’ve spent more than a few nights closer to his life than he deems comfortable, but he’s always had some support that you knew of, even if the bastard didn’t want to admit it. It’s something you envy about him, even if you’re never going to admit that out loud. Even if you’re never going to seek it out for yourself. You’re a dead man walking, going on a decade now. Relationships are meant to be ended for you. But Murdock, despite the misery is alive. Will always be so until he draws his final breath, and even then…

Your thoughts are interrupted by lips clashing against your own. At first you freeze but you melt too easily into it. He’s life, you’re death. But maybe sometimes you need the other to keep going.

\--

It doesn’t go far. You’re too rattled in the brain to do more than some fumbled rubbing against each other, savor the pain of fingers pressing intentionally into bruises to make you simply _feel_. He comes but you don’t, content to see him undone, and despite everything, you fall asleep quickly afterward, naked and smelling of sex, dirt, sweat, and the violent part of the city.

He’s gone when you wake up the next day, the only evidence of him ever being here the dried remains of his cum on your chest and face and the conspicuous absence of all your weapons. You laugh at that, knowing it’s a useless gesture. But still you get dressed and wash yourself in brackish city water before you make your way out of the tenement and back into the city.

You don’t know what last night was. You aren’t sure you want to pursue it. But it was nice. Different. Murdock could have put you in jail but here you are, still a free man.

You put it out of your mind. You have work to do.


End file.
